


Love & Other Mutations

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Love & Other Drugs AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So [this post](http://glower.tumblr.com/post/9503823736/anthonyjcrowley-glower-glower) happened and now my life has been ruined.

Doctor Burt Winston cannot tell if he's having a very good day or a terrible, horrible, no good, Very Bad day. The man lounging in the patient's chair opposite him should be a definite clue to the negative, but there are other... more favourable variables at play today.

“Erik," He sighs. "You know full well that I've been prescribing Zoloft for years. I can't just put my patients on Prozac just because tickets to a medical conference in Hawaii magically appeared on my desk this morning.”

“Under a complimentary M&B paperweight,” Erik Lehnsherr supplies helpfully, smiling like a knife and leaning forward in his seat. “Because plane tickets to Hawaii are very, _very_ expensive and whoever gave them to you probably didn't want them to be misplaced.”

The wheels on Burt's stupidly complicated, ergonomic-as-fuck-with-custom-ass-grooves-and-most-likely-also-gently-massages-your-balls-while-you-work office chair squeak when they roll uncomfortably away from the desk. The fact that one particularly persistent rep from M&B is lounging on the other side of the desk has everything to do with why.

Burt glares weakly, the plane tickets burning a hole in his breast pocket and very probably his soul. “You want to play it this way? Fine. Why should I switch to Prozac when I already have an SSRI that works?” He takes a deep breath and surprisingly – his courage rallies. “Is this really about the benefits of the drug, Erik, or are you just out to destroy SL's client base?”

“Nausea, migraines, diarrhea, fatigue, sedation, sexual dysfunction – Zoloft works, but the side effects aren't worth it,” Erik says, a little bit flatly, his face betraying nothing but the careful blankness of fierce professionalism.

His other question goes unanswered, but Burt never expected one in the first place. He barely resists the urge to cringe when Erik stands, both palms flat on Burt's desk and looming darkly.

“I've read from the script a thousand times, so let's cut the crap. You know I'm right. I put out new samples on your shelves every week and you finish them all by Wednesday, so look me in the eyes and tell me that Prozac isn't helping your patients and I'll turn around and leave you to plan your vacation to Hawaii.”

And then there is a **BEEP** and Burt starts horribly, nearly toppling over in his chair.

Erik blinks, a little bit thrown.

Burt lunges desperately for the intercom button and Erik growls, but it's too late and Emma Frost's cooly efficient voice cuts through the tense silence with: “Emergency patient in the waiting room, Doctor Winston. Patient history taken. 26-year-old male with early-intermediate stage Huntington's. Shall I send him in?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles is a little bit frightening and Erik is a fake intern.

Erik stares unabashedly from behind the clipboard Burt shoved at him five minutes earlier -- when he refused to leave because please, Burt's not getting rid of him this easily, not when he's about to close a sale. So now Erik's a fake intern in the middle of an emergency appointment, leaning against the wall in his fake white lab coat and scribbling fake notes like his fake medical career depended on it, under very strict instructions to 'say nothing at all, Erik, jesus christ, you're trying to get my license taken away from me, I swear'.

Whatever his brain pictured early-intermediate stage Huntington's to look like, Erik didn't expect a human-shaped tweed-wrapped bundle of obscene cheerfulness.

Who wears tweed in their twenties, anyway? Do people still make tweed?

Xavier ('Oh, no, please call me Charles', he says, and really? This is an emergency appointment?) parks himself on the examination table, legs crossed, folds his hands neatly across his lap and there you go –- a heavily bandaged hand.

Not what Erik was expecting, but Charles Xavier is starting to seem like an expectation-defying kind of person.

So of course he grins and waves his injured hand in the air once he realizes what Erik is looking at.

“Not the emergency you're thinking of, I'm afraid,” Charles guesses with frightening accuracy, and Erik shrugs because he's not about to apologize for coming to a logical conclusion. “It wasan emergency when I had half my dinner giving me second degree burns last night, but as you can see--” Finger wiggling happens. “-- It's been taken care of."

Burt nods absently, his nose buried in Charles' file.

"So I'm here for the Xenazine; the ER doesn't  _'do Huntington's'_ ," he explains, air quotes and all, "and I'd really rather not have a repeat performance if I can help it.”

Erik very carefully decides not to say anything and Charles takes it as a cue to keep on talking.

“Thought it could wait till my usual doctor returned from his holiday.  I was wrong."

His wry smile twists into something ugly and brittle for a split second, and Erik isn't sure if he's meant to see that. And then Charles does a curious combination of a head-shake and a shoulder-roll and turns that frown upside-down. As simple as that.

The guilt hits Erik like a punch.

As far as emergency appointments go, this one clearly is less Code Red than Code Faintly Pink Around the Edges And Only If You Squint Really Hard. Charles' full attention and startlingly blue eyes are diverted to the standard physical tests and psychiatric evaluation questions, and Erik finds himself slinking even further into the far corner of the room, fake-contemplating his clipboard. Then he writes, ' **SHIT** ', right in the middle of his fake-notes and underlines it twice.

Burt looks at him oddly over Charles' shoulder while he's attempting to balance on one foot.

Erik has never scowled so damn hard in his life.

\- - - - -

The lab coat and the clipboard were a surprise, but things ultimately go his way despite his conscience dropping in to say hello in the middle of things, because Erik closes the sale like he originally planned to when he woke up this morning. It's a good thing he actually likes Burt Winston; there is only so much bitching Erik can put up with before he gives in to the uncontrollable urge to hurt people.

Still. One down, six more clinics to go. He'll make his quota and – iwasmumbledysomething. __

 _What?_

“I was right,” Charles Xavier repeats, stepping out from behind a pillar and sounding very pleased with himself.

“Excuse me?”

“You're not an intern.” __

 _Shit._

“Yes, I am."

“No, you're really not,” Charles grins, and what the fuck is going on? “It's all right. I'm not angry. I'm not going to sue you either.”

Oh. Well, then. Erik manages a smile, but it's more of a pained grimace.

“How did you know?”

“Your shoes cost $2000.”

Erik's brows rise.

“And you're dragging a suitcase full of M&B products after you.”

“Ah.”

“Huge fan, by the way,” Charles says conversationally, tilting his chin in the direction of the Prozac. “20mg a day.” And then: “Do you like coffee?”

Erik, because he's feeling residual guilt and because Charles is just a very, very fucking confusing person, blurts, “Are you asking me on a _date_?"

“Oh god, _no_ ,” Charles laughs, and Erik's ego shrivels up and dies. “No, not a date. I could ask you on one, but I won't – I don't even know your name, Mr. Erik..?”

“Lehnsherr?”

“Right, Mr. Erik Lehnsherr --” There is the faintest of tremors in Charles' handshake. “-- who works for M&B, wears nice shoes, and is not a medical intern -- what I'm proposing is sex, plain and simple. I live above a coffee shop and I thought I'd ease you into the idea of it, but I suppose it a bit late for that now.”

The worst thing is that Charles looks like he's enjoying this, like he propositions fake interns in the parking lots of clinics all the time, grinning like a maniac as he reaches into his coat pocket and hands Erik a scrap of paper. Erik takes it, shellshocked into mute obedience. It turns out to be an address, scribbled on the back of a receipt in handwriting all loopy and yet kind of neat and unapologetically gay like its owner.

“I'm there every afternoon,” he says -- as if _that_ made any sense at all, and a blinding flash goes off that has Erik flailing to shield his eyes. “Do consider, Erik. You know where to find me,” Charles calls out one last time, and then he wanders off the parking lot, just like that, shaking out a polaroid with his uninjured hand.

Spots dance across his vision of Charles' retreating back.

Seriously, what the fuck just happened.


End file.
